


The Kind of Pain That Doesn't Hurt

by warcatscat



Category: Sanders Sides (Web Series)
Genre: Blood, Graphic Description, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Negative Self Talk, Other, Self Confidence Issues, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Harm, failure - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-28
Updated: 2018-09-28
Packaged: 2019-07-18 17:19:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16123184
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/warcatscat/pseuds/warcatscat
Summary: Roman has bad habits. He knows that. He knows they're not good for coping. But when everything else is so deeply overwhelming, what else can he really return to besides old habits. They die hard, right?





	The Kind of Pain That Doesn't Hurt

**Author's Note:**

> hey, this is UnBeta'd so if you notice anything wonky you can message me at Warcats-cat on tumblr. Please heed the warnings for this one. Its a wondering-thought piece, so I got kinda graphic with some things. As always, this is a coping piece for me, and the medical condition that Roman describes is one that I have that frequently makes me feel as though I will never be successful because of it, even though I see others with the same condition who succeed in everything i want to do. Please feel free to reach out if something is mis-tagged or not tagged. Thanks for reading!

Roman was driving; one hand on the wheel, and one on his lap. Driving through back roads on his way to the park, hoping that he could work some of the pent up energy out of his body physically. His left hand in his lap absently toyed with the two little pieces of skin that he had managed to tug and scrape off the whole, just enough to mess with them. There was no blood yet, thankfully. His nails were getting a little long; they slowly but surely dug down into the disturbed skin, just slightly as he agitated the splits. Little jolts of pain hit his fingers, but honestly it had been a long time running, this habit of his, and he hardly noticed anymore. 

 

The park in sight, he began to pull over and turn, and looked in the lately empty parking lot, hoping one of the shaded spots was open. Patton had lovingly given him money to find lunch, which was now sitting unhappily in his stomach, and then suggested over the phone that Roman go to the park. “Sunlight will be good for you,” he said, “lots of vitamins. Makes the body perk up.” 

 

Roman had been in a slump all morning. Roman had been in a slump for  _ days _ , and it never seemed to end. This was just the tip of his iceberg; being taken off of a show (he was only on crew, but  _ still)  _ due to health concerns. 

 

The worst was that he had agreed to it. To the exhaustion and the blankness regarding this show, and he had willingly stepped down before he had even begun. He wanted a break, he told himself. He was in need of some down time. 

 

And yet.

 

It still felt like he was failing. This was his  _ major  _ for Christ’s sake! He hadn't even  _ been _ in many shows this past year because of things like this! Where was the line between self care and laziness? Where was the line between health concerns and plain failing? When would he have to come to terms with this? 

 

Because  _ he _ felt like he was failing. He ran over and over in his mind the ways he could have made this work. Why had he agreed to step down? Was he giving up? Was he backing out because he was lazy? Was he envious of the actors on stage getting to do what he wanted so badly? What was it that had possessed him to agree? 

 

He looked down at his hand while still toying with the breaks in the skin. No blood. That was a good sign at least. He never was good with blood. He wondered if this toying counted as self harm. It was usually absent-minded; he didn't cut open the edges along his fingernails on purpose, nor did he do it for some kind of self punishment. His fingernails were just… wandering. 

 

He pulled into the last shady spot, just in front of the covered picnic area, where there was a small crowd of people. Mostly children. Probably a birthday party. He couldn't really sit here for long if he didn't want to look creepy. 

He rolled his shoulders and stretched his arms, grabbed the water bottle from the passenger seat, and got out of the car. He hit the lock button a few times out of habit, letting the car honk once or twice to make sure his things inside were safe, and then took off along the walking trail. 

 

It was almost unbearably hot out today; Patton would worry if he knew Roman was here. Roman was only in a loose tee shirt and shorts, and he was already uncomfortable in the heat. Most of the trail was uncovered, too, and the only real shaded area right now was around the pond by the playground. He could loop around the pond to still be walking, but again, he didn’t want to look creepy. 

 

Roman’s mind wandered back to the theatre.  _ Health Concerns _ , the director had said.  _ What if you can’t handle being in a show. I’m worried about you _ . The same stuff Roman had been hearing since he transferred. At least at his old school he was put into shows to get some kind of experience. He hadn’t been on stage since then. And then, unbidden, a thought from much farther back. 

 

_ I’m taking a chance on you. We’ll see. _

 

Roman sighed, wishing he could blow away the memory as easily as the breath in his lungs. That memory always found him in his worst moods, and tried to strangle him. From his “audition” when he came to meet the head of the program he wanted to transfer into. Impromptu, frightening; he hadn’t had much prepared anyway, but being put on the spot like that, he cold only think of the most recent monologue he had worked on in his acting class the year previously, and it was clearly  _ not _ what the director was used to seeing. He hated that phrase,  _ taking a chance _ , as if the director was owed some kind of Gratitude. 

 

At first, Roman had been more than willing to pay that gratitude. He was excited to be in a new program, closer to his friends, somewhere he could hold an outside job, and in a town he was more familiar with that had more to do. It had seemed like everything Roman could ever have wanted.

 

But then auditions came and went, and he wasn’t cast. That was fine. He went in to ask his new director about his audition.  _ You just aren’t ready yet, but you’ll get there _ . That was fine. He volunteered to be on shows as crew. That was fine. Spring semester went the same way, and saw the same comments.

 

That was fine. 

 

And junior year went the same way as that, with the exception of being put on what had largely been considered the ‘pity cast’, where the person who was directing the show had never met or seen any of the cast’s work before the first rehearsal, and parts had to be divvied out as they worked with less time than any other show. 

 

That was less fine.

 

But now Roman was a senior. He was supposed to write a thesis. He was supposed to have a resume that actually had shows on it that weren’t from highschool (he had the two from his first school, of course, and last years’, but there were others in his program that constantly complained about how many shows they had, with no room for other things; and the director always railed about how happy one would be when they had finally gotten all of their college shows off their resume, but what about  _ high school _ ?? Roman was supposed to be in a totally different place than he was, and he frequently felt like he didn't belong. He didn’t feel like he had the talent to match these people, especially when the same five or six actors played all of the lead roles in every show that happened. 

 

Especially when the other transfer student had already written her thesis; when she had just given a speech about how much she had gained from working within the program, how many opportunities she had been given being here, how much more she had because she had transferred.

 

Roman felt a little sick, from the heat or the emotions he couldn't be sure. Either way, he did have to be careful with his blood sugar and his stress. He found a bench to sit for a while, unfortunately only a small portion of it currently in the shade. He probably should just go home, but he couldn’t do it right now. He didn’t want the others to see him and make excuses. He couldn’t deal with Logan’s smugness ( _ Chasing your dreams is fine if they are realistic. I warned you about this, but you didn’t want to be practical. _ ) He couldn’t deal with Patton’s excuses ( _ it’s not fair what the director does to you! It’s stupid that there's only four or five people who are in every show, let alone that the shows only have a few roles when it’s such a big program! You can always go somewhere else and I’m sure things will be better after you graduate. _ ) But the worst felt like Virgil’s silence. He wanted his friends to be proud of him. He wanted to feel like he had made the right choices with his life and his overly-expensive ‘higher education’. 

 

Fainting spells. There were other actors that dealt with the same condition he had! He had met some after a show he went to see! There were nice people who saw humanity within the theatre, he knew it! But he just couldn't get past this one director, because he was stuck with that guy for another year at least. And as long as he was stuck with that director, he would be stuck in this bad headspace. 

 

His hand stung, and he looked down to see a fragment of skin stuck under the corner of his nail on his index finger. A tiny red dot was left behind on the cuticle of his thumb, but it didn’t look to be welling up too fast. He tucked the thumb under the index finger to hide the sore, and any blood that might pop up, and ran his other hand through his hair to free some of the trapped heat under the fluffy pile. 

 

He couldn’t even really remember how long he had been wandering the hot trail. Maybe hours. Maybe minutes. 

Roman wondered how long he could stay before one of his housemates got too concerned and tried to call him. The fingers of his other hand started to rub and scratch at his cuticles without his command, but he didn’t mind. He’d have to go home soon; he wasn’t going to fix all of his problems sitting at a park in the hot sun. His thumb didn’t throb, but it did sting faintly, reminding him that it was there. 

 

He walked back to his car, ignoring the sting. It was the lesser of his problems; the kind of pain that didn’t really hurt.


End file.
